Oxonian Anecdotes: Giving Thanks

As Thanksgiving approached, I didn’t expect much. There was hardly what one might call the warm feeling that grows inside as the holidays approach. In fact, I had a tutorial scheduled for Thanksgiving morning for which I was anything but thankful. I was far too busy with school to think festive thoughts and, sadly enough, not terribly excited about a Thanksgiving spent in England. None of our English counterparts cared that it was near. Most of them did not even know that in a matter of days there would be warm gatherings of family across the United States, gatherings of which we longed to be a part. We knew that they would continue without us, and so our attention turned to other things.

One British family did know Thanksgiving was coming and was preparing to celebrate. It was Ruth’s family, and when I had spent time at their home weeks before, Ruth’s parents questioned me as to how they might make a proper Thanksgiving meal for some American graduate students they would be hosting. It was a ministry for them and I’m still not sure if they know how important it truly was. I did my best to recall everything they would need: mashed potatoes, turkey, gravy, green beans, stuffing, sweet potatoes, pumpkin pie, cranberry sauce, bread, and I was sure to add that any of these things might look different depending on the region of the states and even on the household. They wrote everything down as I thought hard for the sake of my fellow Americans.

To my delight, I was invited to this Thanksgiving celebration and so reaped the fruits of my thoughtful labor. It was a much different party than the one I attended before at the same residence. The guests were older and American and so somewhat less interesting to me and certainly less intimidating. I did very much enjoy the food. That meal may be the best Thanksgiving meal I have ever had and it was their first attempt! It was beautiful and delicious irony. The food was wonderful and the hosts were warm, but something essential was missing from the Thanksgiving celebration: family.

The Saturday after this official Thanksgiving meal there was to be another Thanksgiving celebration for all of the American students and British staff in my program. I did not expect much from this. Almost one hundred people were to attend and the preparation of the food had been divided between the students. How could this possibly be mistaken for, or even compared to, an intimate and traditional family affair? I was convinced that it could not, but was welcoming the socialization and potentially better-than-average food that might accompany the day.

Sometimes it is the lowest expectations that receive the most surprising reality. I awoke on that Saturday, our Thanksgiving, found a brown sweater to borrow, in true Thanksgiving apparel tradition, and walked downstairs. What I found astounded me. It was a bustling kitchen, a living room filled with laughter and an American football game in the back yard, the rosy-cheeked players enduring the chill of the November air while leaves crunched under their feet. “If I didn’t know any better, I would say that I was at home,” I thought. Then I realized something: I was at home. The people that surrounded me were the people with whom I lived and shared life and had been for months. We called the same old brick house home, made meals in the same kitchen, and ate them around the same table. They saw me when I had an unfinished essay, when I was late for my tutorial, when I felt like I didn’t belong there. They knew me, and I knew them. In that moment, it didn’t matter that we had only met in August: we were family.

Once I accepted this new family of mine, the day could not have been more like a “real” Thanksgiving if I had been at home with my “real” family. We played cards, gave thanks, ate wonderful food made for one another by our own hands. There was a dessert competition, and entertainment was provided by the very British and adorable children of our head tutor. The smallest one, Harry, even played us a ‘hoe-down’ on his violin in honor of America. A crowd of us went to the pub later in the evening, and when we returned, only The Vines residents were left, the living room was dim, lit only by the white lights of our Christmas tree, and a jolly group of students were making Christmas ornaments. We joined them, and I could not imagine a more festive scene. Clinging to the day, we piled on our couches and fell asleep watching Christmas movies.[1]

That day, our fake Oxford Thanksgiving, will most certainly live in my memory as one of the greatest, warmest, and most familial Thanksgivings I have ever enjoyed. I did not spend it with my parents, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, or cousins, but I was blessed with the company of others who I love, most of whom I will never see again except in my memories of Oxford in which that day glows as one of the brightest.

[1] We actually watched Transformers, but for the sake of the story, let’s just say that it was It’s A Wonderful Life.